


let your love

by xxcaribbean



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Steve Wears Glasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 20:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxcaribbean/pseuds/xxcaribbean
Summary: There’s a key pressed into the palm of Billy’s hand, weighted like a brick he shouldn’t be carrying. It burns cold, the heat of his body warming the metal, from the embroidered cutouts at the top, all the way down to the jagged lines that open one particular door Billy’d been hell bent onnotusing.





	let your love

**Author's Note:**

> for this prompt: Can I get like a cute Steve in glasses And Billy not knowing he wears them? He just walks in on him one day in a chair beside the window looking cute with big glasses and a book in hand? And Billy freaking loving it?

There’s a key pressed into the palm of Billy’s hand, weighted like a brick he shouldn’t be carrying. It burns cold, the heat of his body warming the metal, from the embroidered cutouts at the top, all the way down to the jagged lines that open one particular door Billy’d been hell bent on  _not_  using.

But tonight is different with the walls of emotions a cavernous echo in his head, doesn’t quite know what to do to drown out the relentless aspect of his thoughts. The obvious choice is a bottle of Jack washing away the burden of self-hate that tethers itself to his existence. The second is the Camaro, a beauty of blue in waves of green, the bark of trees mimicking her roar when he dries way too fast.

Crash landing in Hawkins had felt like a fever dream, misconstrued and unsubtle in its meaning; but it left Billy angry and poised for bloody knuckles that only satisfied for as long as the sting of deep cuts throbbed. Finding solace in anything but violence hadn’t been a choice until Billy’d been forced in front of a mirror. A defective piece of work stared right back, unblinking and unchanging; if this is what he was to become, Billy thinks he deserves it.

And yet the key in his hand tells a different story, fingers curling around it tightly. He stares up at the door and wonders if he’s welcome, knows better than to question it. He wouldn’t be here if that were the case because it’d been an open invitation.

Those came and went often, Billy use to the tease and the intention, but when Harrington’s mouth curled into a frown and looked at him roughly, Billy knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his offer was meant to be serious.

Unfurling his hand, Billy twists the key between his fingers, slides it between the lock. With a flick of his wrist, the door clicks, then opens, and he’s staring into the mouth of restoration. He breathes deeply, releases the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, maybe the key a trick only for him. He’s never used it before, hadn’t known if maybe he’d been lied to, but when Billy steps into the house, away from the cold, he feels relief flooding his being.

“Harrington,” he calls, should’ve knocked while he was at it, but the house is quiet save from the hum of the fridge as Billy passes through like a ghost. It’s eerie, he thinks, being here, walking through a museum of a house hardly used. Everything’s in place, undisturbed and for show, shutters because of the emptiness.

He crosses the hall into the living room, just as impeccable and lavish as he’d expected, no dust, no specs of dirt, grimacing when he remembers his shoes. Billy toes them off, leaves them there, refuses to walk all the way back to the door. He knows that if he retreats, he’ll leave, and a night in the car on a cold December evening doesn’t sound very appealing.

So, Billy trails through every room, an inspector studying artifacts he knows jack shit about. They’re expensive as hell, knick-knacks from around the world, paintings on white walls he’d never guess the meaning of, intricacies the world has not educated him on yet.

Billy touches nothing out of pure respect, snorts at the notion that he has any to begin with. How odd, he thinks, that he can find that here in the deep recesses of other people’s things, but the moment his foot makes a creak against the floorboards of his home, he’s denied an attempt in the making.

Quickly, Billy moves along, refuses to let himself go down that path. Tonight had been an argument with only a backhand involved, and he’d luckily escaped with only a warning. It’d been a good day in comparison to many others, though the hope that maybe he’d have more of them is lost on him, banishes freedom and what ifs from his mind. This house makes him feel things he shouldn’t, knows he could lose himself here if he tried.

And that’s when he stumbles across a grand room, the opening of some kind of study. It clears his mind, makes him curious when he steps past the threshold of wide double doors. There’s a desk and some paper, stacks of books in the corner, and the shelves hit floor to ceiling. Billy swallows the awe, the itch for contact, before glancing around the room.

It’s where he finds Steve curled into himself, pressed back into a leather chair near the window.

There’s a book in his lap, a glowing yellow lamp as the only source of light. Steve’s got on socks, sweatpants, and a warm, finely-made sweater, but what glints in the light as Steve turns the page, clearly not having heard Billy enter, are the frames on his face and the smile on his lips as his brain swells with information.

“I knew you were hard of hearing,” Billy says roughly, enjoys the way Steve jumps in surprise, “but hard of seeing, pretty boy? No wonder it took us so long.”

He doesn’t say that out loud very often, and Steve never pressures him to either. There’s no definitions, no details between the lines of what they do, but Billy knows what this is, know what it meant when Steve dug into his backpack and handed him the only thing he thought he could offer.

“Billy,” Steve breathes, like he’s a mystical creature, like he wasn’t expecting Billy at all. And of course he wasn’t because Billy couldn’t kick his pride in order to accept this safe haven. He’s tired of fighting, though, with himself and with every demon that plagues him; his need eventually won out, and now that Billy’s here, he figures he’s truly been an idiot.

Steve doesn’t move from his position, but Billy bows like he’s entertaining royalty. “I thought I’d stop by. Is this a bad time?”

In reply, Steve shakes his head, the brown of his eyes is lost in the shadows of a half-dark room full of books. But they’re wide and amused, crooking a finger at Billy to come hither.

Billy listens, steps closer to Steve, feels the heat of his body when he stretches out a hand, inspecting Billy’s knuckles like he knows he’ll find something there.

He’s surprised, once again, when he finds nothing. Billy had actually been good this time, didn’t find a face or a tree or a fucking wall to punch, didn’t want the satisfaction of his father’s disappointment to cause him to harm himself again. So, instead, he came here, retreated like puppy with a tail between its legs even though he sat in the Camaro for a solid ten minutes contemplating whether he was making the right decision.

He knew Steve’s comfort would wash away his doubts, refocus his attention to the fact that he hadn’t failed. Ultimately, it’d be that that won him over.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says around a smile, presses the back of Billy’s hand to his lips. They’re warm, if not chapped, but they make Billy feel something good in lieu of how exposed he really feels.

“What are you doing?” he asks as a substitute for his emotions, poses the question toward the book Steve’s forgotten. There’s a bookmark in place, as if this isn’t Steve’s first time reading the hardback. It’s beautiful from what Billy can tell, a soft shade of blue with gold writing.

Steve clears his throat, shuffles in his seat before attempting to discard the material. Billy catches his wrist in a soft hold before Steve can remove the evidence. “If you want to finish, I’ll wait,” he proposes, lets Steve go because he wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

But Steve doesn’t look afraid of Billy, not once does his eyes cast suspicion. Rather, he curls his fingers around the book, forces Billy to take a step back as he stands. “I like to sit in here sometimes. It’s the warmest room in the house.”

Billy doesn’t know if that’s true; he could counter it by offering Steve the suggestion of his room, but Billy doesn’t entirely know  _this_  Steve, the one outside of school, the one who spends his weekends babysitting a bunch of bratty kids. It makes Billy realize just how little effort he’d put in  _them_ , as if they even knew what they were doing; but he mentally berates himself for not knowing about this side of Steve, locked up and alone, finding comfort through the only other form of intimacy he knows. Right here, right now, he vows to make distinctions.

“So, you weren’t reading?” Billy offers instead, even though he knows that he could catch Steve red-handed in a lie. They both know he was, and Billy hates how easy Steve looks guilty.

“I don’t- there’s not much-” he slips, lets his words hang in the air; much like Billy, Steve has nowhere else to be, nowhere else to go, and the simple fact that Billy had been so wrong about him from the start makes him angry. Angry at himself for being selfish, for all the things done to him, for the life he wishes he had.

But standing here together somehow puts  _King Steve_  and  _Billy_  on equal footing.

Billy doesn’t like this, hates that Steve’s struggling with whatever internal discourse he’s having. He hadn’t come here to make him feel bad about his choices, as if Billy had any room to judge anyone about anything ever again. “You’ve never worn these before,” he hums, watches Steve’s brow relax, a sigh of relief for the deferment.

With a deep nod, Steve adjusts the glasses, every intention of pulling them off his face, but once again, Billy falters by holding Steve’s hand in place.

“I only need them sometimes,” he says, blinking back at Billy with owlish eyes. Unruly hair frames his face, untouched by any product, though it looks a dazzled mess from what Billy knows is Steve’s tick of the self-conscious. Billy’s a restless mess that burns every muscle in his body, but Steve’s dwells down to his arms, and most particularly, his fingers.

“You know reading in the dark makes it worse.”

“Oh.”

Billy laughs, if only lightly, nudging the frames so they sit higher on Steve’s nose. They’re a delicate mix of light brown, a deep tawny gold color melded into the arms of the frame. They’re just Steve’s type, he thinks, soft and sturdy. The shape of them are close to square but rounded at the edges; they hold the prescription that make Steve’s doe-eyes look only a fraction bigger. “C’mon,” he says, tugging on Steve’s sweater. Billy pulls Steve away from the chair, turns them around until he sits comfortably down it.

The angle’s changed now, Billy gazing up at Steve, who’s disregarded his curiosity for warmth at the crook of his lip. He looks satisfied, if not pleased. “You want me to sit in your lap?”

Billy shrugs, glancing at the floor. “Unless you prefer elsewhere.”

Steve scoffs, handing Billy the book before joining him. It’s an awkward tangle of limbs, Steve’s legs thrown over Billy’s. His sock-clad feet rest over the arm of the chair, but it’s the perfect position for him to curl up close to Billy.

His intention hadn’t been clear, even to himself, but Billy doesn’t stiffen when Steve rests his head on his shoulder, when the palm of his hand finds his chest. Steve reaches for the book, opens it one handed, then nudges Billy with its corner. “Will you read to me?” he requests, so soft-spoken.

Billy snorts but obliges, opens the book where Steve had last left it. There’s a curious picture on the side of the page, with a one-line caption beneath. A woman in black and white, a mysterious being, he’s sure, but Billy doesn’t ask, just glances at the pages and wonders what kind of tale he’s gotten himself into.

With the pad of his thumb, Billy brushes over the words, clears his throat and decides that compromise works better between them. “Only if you wear them more often,” he says, the ultimatum kinder in tone. He feels the rise and fall of Steve’s breathing, briefly wondering if he’d passed out, but Steve’s nose is cold against Billy’s neck as he shifts in his arms and resettles.

“You like them that much?” Steve asks as he turns to look at Billy, the glasses bumping his jaw to the point where Steve reaches up to adjust them again.

The truth of the matter is that Billy is sometimes too blunt; it doesn’t always work in his favor, and he’s learned long ago that what he really wants to say might land him in hot water. Yet, this is Steve, and Billy’s still learning; he’s already past the point of no return. There’s no better place for him to be than a house full of warmth and a boy that makes his heart swell with yearning.

Billy grins, and Steve watches him warily like he knows what he might hear, and yet it still makes him stall when Billy says, “Yes, I’d fuck you in them.”

Steve blushes so deep, it creeps down his neck, tugging at the collar of his sweater. But he doesn’t move otherwise, and he’s arduously trying not to grin. For the sake of the matter, he bites the inside of his cheek, clears his throat like that might expel words. They don’t come out, just a broken record until he settles on, “I-  _are you serious_?”

“I’m going to read to you, aren’t I?” Billy proposes, lifting the book up in his hand. The pages fall back in place, but the bookmark is there saving Billy from extra work of finding exactly where Steve had left off.

“Fuck,” Steve says softly, just under his breath. This topic of conversation has been broached before, but not in-depth and certainty not with specifics. Billy knows they’re new at this; whatever  _this_  is, he doesn’t know, but he’s also never shied away from meager confessions, and by the looks of it, Steve is hardly complaining.

With a sigh, Billy thumbs the pages until he’s back at square one, greeting the woman with tepid blue eyes. She’s held Steve’s attention for much too long, wonders what makes her so interesting. “I already regret saying this,” he murmurs, knows that if he’s not careful, he could come undone. Tonight wasn’t about that to begin with, hadn’t meant the implication that Steve’s only useful in such matters, because as Billy knows, in more ways than one, Steve is more than just special, “but  _later_.”

Steve laughs, not unkindly, buries his face in the crook of Billy’s neck and shoulder. Billy feels the hum he gives and the tapping of fingers when Steve points to the sentence he’d left.

Billy tightens his hold around Steve, never wants to let him go if he’s being honest, a thought that rolls through his mind so quickly. He doesn’t have time to process it, though, the words on the page jumping at him instead; they only call for his attention.

Billy licks his lips and starts to read, quite thankful for the long night ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me @ roseaque on tumblr ;)


End file.
